by Sandra Byrd
Yes, yes I had. I kept my hand on the pistol in my pocket, knowing I could shoot, effectively, without ever withdrawing it from my gown if need be.
“Who’s there?” I called out. The door squeaked open and I placed my finger on the trigger. “Who is there?” I demanded.
“C’est moi, Michelene,” came the answer.
I sighed with relief and removed my finger from the trigger. “Michelene! Whatever are you doing here? I could have shot you!”
“Quelle horreur!” The color drained from her face. “I am very thankful that you did not. It is late. I returned to your room to see if I might remove one of your gowns for mending and found you gone. When I looked for you in the house and could not find you, I looked out of the window and saw the hem of your dressing gown before it disappeared on the path. Et voilà. Here I am.” She looked at me with a strange look on her face. “Are you quite well?”
I nodded. “I . . . I thought I saw a faint light out here. I wanted to see . . .”
Michelene looked around. “There is no light except my lamp.”
I nodded. “No, it’s quite dark, I agree, now that the moon has gone behind the clouds again.” I held out my open hand. “I found this here. Do you know who it belongs to?”
She looked at the jet and diamond hairpin before closing my hand softly around it. “It is yours, little one. It belongs to you.”
“Mine?” I was confused. I didn’t recall ever wearing this. And I hadn’t been in the chapel before. Had I?
“Come, petite.” She put her arm around me. “You need sleep. We shall leave by the door that opens smoothly, and not the one that does not?” She shepherded me out of the chapel and back to the house, extracting a promise that I would not make any more late-night visits to the chapel, insinuating by her choice of words that this had not been my first.
It had been. Hadn’t it? Had she really seen me, and followed? Or on this night, in which she had given me a large dose of laudanum, had she been planning to visit the chapel herself, for some reason?
On Monday, we took the new landau to Winchester. This time we took Mrs. Blackwood with us so she could procure some ingredients for Cook. Daniel ran errands, as he often did, and planned to take the carriage to the coachworks to purchase some grease. He said he would be back for us in two hours.
“I’ll be at the poulterer’s,” Mrs. Blackwood said. “And then I’ve other errands. I’ll meet you back here.” She popped up her black umbrella against a sudden summer shower. We headed for the milliner’s, but on the way passed the china and home-goods shop. I drew close to the window.
“Let’s go in,” I said, and Michelene smiled and opened the door for me. We wandered around for a bit, and I looked longingly at a lovely tea set, which I did not purchase, and also at some lace linens that reminded me of my mother. On the way out, I spotted a dish—a fish dish, to be precise—in garish red. It was the duplicate of the one Cook had used some time before. I brought it back to the counter, and asked the assistant, “Do you know if one of these was sold to Headbourne House?”
The matron switched feet, fidgeting, and finally said, “Yes. It went with a large order, many months ago, last year, in fact. There were few dishes in service and the mistress of the house, er, at the time, ordered quite a few from us.”
“I am the true Rebecca Ravenshaw of Headbourne House, returned,” I said gently.
She nodded. “My sister told me.”
“Delightful!” I smiled. “Who is your sister?”
She nodded and coughed into a small handkerchief. “She’s your cook.”
My eyes widened. “Ah, I see. And she, she directed the woman claiming to be me to your shop for purchases.”
“It’s not like all that, then,” she protested. “There aren’t many shops in town which sells dishes and such, now, are there? She, Miss Ravenshaw, the first one, I mean, and my sister, well, they were close.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply . . .” It would have been most unusual for a servant to be “close” with her cook.
The woman hesitated. “She reminded my sister of her daughter.”
“I see,” I said. “And is her daughter nearby?” Perhaps the daughter had known the imposter!
The proprietress shook her head. “No, miss. She was murdered in Ireland. She was an actress and fell in with a bad lot of men and married one of them. So when the young thing came to her, my sister took her under her wing. She didn’t want her to marry a bad man, too.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” I said, and I was. Poor Cook! “But . . . was the, my, imposter thinking she must marry?”
“That, I don’t know. I do know that when she arrived, well, my sister thought, here is someone I can mother, someone who needs attention. She couldn’t give it to her own girl now, not anymore, could she? Then this one was murdered, too.”
“Self-murder,” I said.
She shrugged. “It would seem.”
“You don’t believe it to be so?”
“I have no opinion at all, Miss Ravenshaw.”
None that she would share, anyway. “Thank you for your time,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be back some day.”
She nodded her approval, and we left. Well, Cook’s daughter could not have known the imposter, but it did explain why Cook was so protective, so reluctant to admit the woman who’d claimed to have been me could have done wrong. I recalled her comment about Whitfield’s proposing bed and board—marriage—and perhaps having been rejected. Had that been based on reality, or Cook’s protective imaginings?
We left and began walking toward where we were to meet with Daniel. I could see Winchester Cathedral in the background, imposing and beautiful, stately. My head was up, though, and I wasn’t watching where I walked, so I bumped into a small lad.
“Oh!” I said as he fell to the ground. “I am so sorry, it’s all my fault.” I looked him over. He was nearly smothered by two armfuls of women’s clothing, some pieces stained and with torn piping, some dresses actually in good condition but in an outmoded style.
Michelene sniffed. “Thief.”
“I’m not a thief. ” He drew himself up to his full height—which reached to about our chest level. He pushed his blond hair from his face, leaving a small trail of grime to mark the path of his hand. “Mum cleans the old clothes shop, you know, where the rich ladies sell their old clothes. I’m helping her carry these. That’s what she’s paid with.”
“Understandable,” I said. “I’m so sorry, I was looking at the cathedral and not where I was walking. You’re not hurt, are you?”
“I’m tough,” he said, and grinned. “The cathedral, well, I can understand that. It’s so pretty from the outside.”
Something in his voice prompted me to question more. “And the inside as well, no doubt?”
“I wouldn’t know.” He pointed downward. “I ain’t got shoes. No church is going to let me in with bare feet.”
“Surely not!” I said. “Why, Jesus washed the bare feet of his disciples and they had on, at best, sandals.”
“I’ve tried, miss, and not just that one. That’s the thing about the churches. They don’t want you if you ain’t rich.”
I turned to Mrs. Ross. “Is this true? About the shoes?”
“I’m afraid it is in most churches, lassie.”
“We really must be going. We do not want Daniel to be waiting, non?” Michelene looked impatient and tried to move farther away from the young boy so his armload of filthy clothes would not touch her.
“What is your name?” I bent down.
“Matthew. And what is yours?”
I grinned at his boldness. “My name is Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw. Matthew—I would like to give you some shoes. I remember what it was like to only have one pair, and those ones too big, not long ago. Would that be all right?”
“Oh yes, Miss Rebec
ca, I would like that.” I ignored his charming use of my Christian name.
I looked around. I had no money. I carried no money. Daniel pulled the carriage up.
“Matthew, you tell your mother that I shall send around my driver to arrange a day for you to visit the cobbler and then come to my house to receive your shoes. She works at the old clothes shop?”
“Yes, miss,” he said. “You won’t forget, will you, miss?”
I shook my head. “I shan’t forget, Matthew. I give you my word.”
Daniel helped us into the carriage. Mrs. Blackwood was already inside with her packages. We shortly took off for Headbourne House.
“Really!” Michelene said. “This is most irregular. You can’t invite all sorts of people to your home or the right sorts of people won’t come.”
“Perhaps he is the right sort of people.” To be chided by a lady’s maid on social propriety was a bit beyond what I was willing to overlook. I looked down at my parasol, my costly parasol, and was stricken with guilt. “What is most irregular is that there is a young boy who would like to attend church, but cannot, because he has no shoes.”
“I hope Lady Ashby does not hear of this,” Michelene said.
“Why ever would you mention Lady Ashby?” I asked rather crossly.
“She’s invited you to her dance, just after the picnic, non?” Michelene said. “She’ll want to introduce you to the best people. Not to old clothes shop cleaners.” She sank back into her seat and closed her eyes, feigning sleep. We arrived at Headbourne a few minutes later and I could see that the other carriage was being wiped down.
“Captain Whitfield back?” Daniel called to one of his grooms.
“Yes,” came the answer.
It was awkward, really, how both Michelene and I looked toward the guesthouse at the same time, hoping, I supposed, to see him. I noted her interest. I was certain she’d noted mine. We stayed in the carriage for a moment while the packages were unloaded and she never took her eyes away from the guesthouse.
“The conversation in the shop made me wonder, have you ever been married?” I asked Michelene after the others had removed themselves to the house. I knew some ladies’ maids, if widowed young, returned to their former profession.
“Non, not married,” she said. “But in love . . . oui. With a man in France, a comte, a member of the noblesse.” She looked sad. “He was not a man who would defy convention to keep me. Like some Englishmen would. For example, your Mr. Mead and his Indian wife.”
My eyes widened. “How do you know about Mr. Mead?”
“You told me, petite. Do you not recall?” She looked at me as one might look at a fevered or confused child.
I shook my head, and then stretched into my memory to bring to mind when I might have mentioned such a thing. The only person I had, with certainty, mentioned Mr. Mead to was Captain Whitfield. Had he discussed this with Michelene? Or had I truly brought this up with her and completely forgotten the incident?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Wednesday was my day for calling; Daniel had the carriage ready.
“Have you made any inquiries about the shoes for that young lad?” I asked him.
“Yes, Miss Ravenshaw. The cobbler is currently making them, and I’ll let you know as soon as they are ready.”
“Thank you, Daniel. You are so dependable about running errands, and I appreciate your help in this matter, very much indeed.”
“How will . . . how will you let the boy and his mother know?”
“Would it be impolite, or an imposition, to send you round with an invitation?”
He shrugged. “I will do it.” His voice quieted. “It is a kind thing to do, miss. I was once an orphan, you know.”
“I did not know,” I said. “I’m so pleased you’re in a happy situation then, here.”
He nodded. “Captain Whitfield saw to it that I was offered a job. His father had known mine in the military.” Daniel said no more but clucked and the horses took off.
I made a few quick social calls, to Lady Ashby, to a new friend at church, and one longer one to Lady Frome, which I most enjoyed, before stopping to drop my card off for Mrs. Knowlton, the friend of my mother.
I sent Daniel to the door with the card, expecting that she would not be at home, but he came out with a grin. “She’ll see you!”
I nearly tumbled from the carriage in my rush to see her, making my way up to her tidy brick cottage, finally standing on the humble doorstep. Her man opened the door and showed me into her bright parlor. She sat in a corner, a blanket draped over her feet. She looked frail; her eyes were opaque with pain, cloudy white like the thick of an egg white covering what must have once been bright blue.
“I’m delighted to see you.” She indicated I should settle in a chair near her own.
“I shan’t stay long and overtire you. But I’m so very appreciative you’ve seen me.”
After a few moments of light conversation she said, “I knew within moments of your arrival at church that you were Constance Ravenshaw’s daughter as surely as I knew that the earlier young woman, God rest her soul, was not.”
“How?” I asked.
“You’ve the look of her,” she said. “The way you carry yourself, the tone of your voice. Your confidence and poise. There are not many of us left from the early years in the church. We were small in number and many of the founders were aged. It is not surprising that there were few who remember you . . . you were a wee child when you left. But Constance was a particular friend to me and we were of an age. She wrote to me for many years, both before and after the . . . darker years.”
I nodded. “Those years are not secret.”
Mrs. Knowlton set down her cup. “I’m afraid, my dear, that I’ve done you a disservice. After the first young woman arrived, Lady Ledbury called on me.”
“You’re friends?” Lady Ledbury had not thought so.
She cackled and looked around her modest environment. “Oh, no. But she is a liberal contributor to our coal charity. She made it clear that she would prefer her son, whom she believes to be the rightful heir of Headbourne, to take possession. She intimated that should I be in touch with the first woman, or with you, later, the coal money would come to an end. I was concerned for those who might go without on a cold night.”
She took my hand in her own bony one. “Can you forgive me?”
“Oh yes, yes, dear Mrs. Knowlton,” I said. “Do not give this another thought. I’m sorry to have delivered such trouble your way.”
“Thank you, dear, but you did not deliver the trouble.” Mrs. Knowlton looked at me, her eyes clearing for a moment. “Lady Ledbury’s son did seem to focus on your imposter with a steady eye, and of course would have had cause to have been pleased to receive the house in the end.”
“At the cost of her death?” My heart raced. Did she question Whitfield, too? Did they all?
“That, my dear, I couldn’t know,” she said. “I do not know him. Only his mother.” She sipped a little tea, then sat quietly for a moment before saying, “Lady Ledbury has spread word, quietly, that you suffer from some . . . imbalance. She knew your mother had melancholia.”
I sat there for a moment, silent, sipping my tea.
“Mummy!” I banged on the small door that separated my parents’ room from the main door. “Mummy, please let me come in and help you.”
The crying quieted for a while but then it brewed again and I stopped knocking. Peter brought a small bowl of rice to me that ayah had made. “It’ll be all right,” he murmured. Our ayah clucked over both of us and drew us near to her bosom before returning to her own home that night.
Late, after Father had returned to the house, there was a loud, sharp disagreement about living in India. In the morning, Mother pretended nothing had been awry, hoping we would too, one supposed. She picked up her needlework and later show
ed our ayah how to begin with bobbins. That was the end of the beginning, I remember, and the start of something new.
I’d never forgotten the wailing, though it was the last time she’d cried out. It echoed, still, in my ears.
“Miss Ravenshaw?” Mrs. Knowlton drew me back to the present.
“Oh, yes. Sorry.” I remembered the occasional question or implication inquiring as to whether I was well. But I hadn’t imagined the gate having been blocked in the stable yards, or the theft of the first packet of letters, or the lights by the grave, or Mrs. Ross in the woods. Had I?
“And now,” she said, “before I nod off, please tell me of the last years in India. Your mother wrote regularly for a time. Then she stopped.”
“Might I ask why? If you know? I hope I’m not pressing.”
“Not at all, dear.” She patted my arm. “She hadn’t wanted to be in India at first, as you know. I suspect news from one who seemed to have all that she wanted, a life of peace and comfort in England, was too painful to bear for a while. Once she found her feet, she wrote again, and then it was my turn to fence with envy as she accomplished so much, and, sadly, I let my return letters dwindle.”
“Oh yes, I see.” This was perhaps why I hadn’t heard from one or another of my English friends in India—it all made sense now. They envied the calm of my situation, or of being home, though they certainly could not have envied my parents’ death or my loss of family.
I obliged her, sharing the happy parts, and most of the later years were profoundly happy. I promised to call again. “Mrs. Knowlton,” I began, pulling my gloves on, “you’ve spoken of my imposter, and I should like to find out what I may about her. Do you know anything further?”
She shook her head. “She said but little at church, very often did not attend, claiming illness, and in general, after but a month or two, kept most often to Headbourne. She wasn’t here long before . . .” She cast her eyes downward and sipped her tea. “Before her life was taken.”
“Taken? Not a suicide?”